


they had to be wrong

by Author_021



Category: Asagao Academy: Normal Boots Club
Genre: Abuse, F/M, Poor baby boy, Regret, Running Away, Self-Harm ???, Shane Has A Dog Now, Soulmate AU, Soulmate Abuse, Soulmate Wing AU, Soulmates, Toxic Relationship, Wing AU, it's not happy, there's a knife
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-08-21 11:48:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16575875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Author_021/pseuds/Author_021
Summary: Shane trying to fix the mistakes of fate.(Takes place pre-Asagao.)





	they had to be wrong

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't put graphic depictions of violence cause that isn't what this is, but Shane does display self-harming tendencies and there's mentions of serious physical abuse. There's also mentions of blood and Crying.

The world made a mistake.

After thousands of years of a system without fail, the world finally fucked up. Soulmates had been established so far back in human history it was hard to imagine a time without them, a time where love had no boundaries, no definition. Before the wings, everyone was given no guidance, no path.

Shane, as a child, thought he wanted that path.

Not anymore.

His hands were shaking, a quivering nervousness in his bones corrupting the normal steadiness of an artist’s stroke. He made a motion, a slice across his back, never striking anything. Shane practiced the swing like a golfer, back and forth with a violence foreign to his own body.

His wings were always called beautiful. A speckle of navy and gray and gold, they reached far out from his spine and arched like the path of an arrow. The fan of the feathers was wide and strong, something he used to display proudly alongside the pair owned by his soulmate. The contrast of pink and blue between them was nothing short of magnificent.

But Shane didn’t want this. All they ever did was hurt him. The soft, long feathers gave her a target to grab, the bones hidden underneath a springboard for the violent swings she took at his back. After his rescue, she’d clawed at the wings in a desperate attempt to eradicate the trickling white that had faded in from someone new, making him bleed red along the abandoned hardwood of the kitchen floor.

That wasn’t too long ago. And yet, in that window, Shane had endured more pain than he felt locked away in that cold, frozen prison. She pulled at his hair and lunged at his throat as a constant reminder that she was in charge, a haunting notification of her power.

Shane felt trapped by those damn wings.

But not anymore.

The handle of the knife in his hands was beginning to warm, melting into the fridged steel of the blade that whisked past the dancing feathers. Shane was knelt in the bathroom, the time outside unknown to him aside from the vague idea that it was late and that she was asleep. His hands slowly lost their shake, replaced with a confident sort of regret that made each swing carry with it a passing noise of  _ whish _ ,  _ whish _ ,  _ whish _ . 

The beautiful sea of blue behind him seemed to mourn their own demise, sinking into each other more and more with each passing of the weapon. It was a familiar tool to them, one that she had come to them with after an unfortunate incident involving the temporary loss of their shared dog, Bentley. Shane could hear the dog’s peaceful padding outside of his door, keeping an unaware watch as Shane committed his crimes.

Shane’s gaze iced over as the air kicked on in the small, isolated tomb of his bathroom, the sudden breeze causing the embroidered hand towels to shake in their chains, and the mirror shielding his medications seemed to waver and distort the tears falling down his face.

Shane clenched his teeth.

She was still asleep in the room two doors away, pink wings fanned out where the ghost of his body used to lay. His hand shifted to adjust to the melting grip of the kitchen knife. His wings cried as he gathered a handful of mixed blue and gold and gray feathers in his fist, pulling them away from his body until they could pull no farther. A forgotten white feather stood out within the tangle, and Shane placed the sharp steel against it with determination.

Swing one.

His eyes burned with the effort to stay open, to watch the gruesome fall of his most beautiful feature. His thrown shirt shook in the blowing air as if calling out to just  _ put it back on, it’s not worth it _ .

Swing two.

There was a soft cry from outside the thick birch door, a gentle clawing of Bentley’s wide, trimmed claws. Shane let out a shushing plea, whispering under his breath, “It’ll be okay, Benny.”

And, after stuffing a towel deep into the space between his teeth, Shane made swing three. 

The steel cut through the fleshy branches of his feathers, and his back arched with the sharp, slicing pain. He felt his eyes open wide, but his vision was black, all of his energy focused on remaining silent. As his senses returned, Shane heard the  _ pitter patter  _ of his blood falling to the tile.

Shane clawed for another handful.

Swing four.

Swing five.

Swing ten.

Swing twenty.

Swing fifty-seven.

Piles of feathers fell around his ankles in a pool of red and blue and gray and gold amongst a sheet of white corrupted tile. Bentley could feel his pain, but he’d resigned to nothing but a gentle, pleading whine from under the door. Shane scratched desperate hands along the wirey structure of wings that ghosted his back, resorting to pulling the small, useless feathers that clung to him as a memory. 

The kitchen knife clattered to the floor amongst the mess as he heaved himself to his feet, leaning on the counters with all his weight. His head was bowed, breathing heavily as he regained the feeling of pain in the space just below his shoulder blades. 

And then, as if to copy the knife, the remains of his wings snapped away, cracking once, twice against the floor before going silent.

Shane raised his gaze.

In front of him was himself. An unrecognizable face behind the sticky sweat and blood that clung to his hair and forehead that, for the first time in three years, looked familiar. His eyes weren’t haunted and hollow like the passing reflections he saw in store windows or duck ponds, and pulled across his mouth was an uncharacteristic smile, teeth bared as a low, rumbling chuckle pushed up through his lungs.

He was still crying.

Shane let himself fall back to the floor, heaving armfuls of feathers into the plastic bag tied loosely into the trash bin. He pushed them deep into the flimsy container, compressing the loose pieces into one unified mound as he tied the handles into a neat, tidy bow.

That was the extent of his cleaning.

Shane didn’t have time.

Heaving his weighted body back to his feet, Shane clambered as quietly as he could for the door, pushing it on silent hinges until he could see the full scene around him. Bentley rushed for him, shoving his nose deep into the soft skin of Shane’s stomach, softening the harsh smile on Shane’s features. The large window across from Shane exposed an awake world of trees and shadows that flickered in the harsh, whistling wind. 

The momentum of his body seemed to carry Shane forward and down the long, winding stairwell to the first floor. Bentley followed him, letting Shane knot his hands into the thick fur of his neck happily. The lower steps groaned in displeasure for being woken at such an early hour, alerting the house of Shane’s presence. The kitchen scoffed at him as he passed, the huffing ventilation still circulating above the stovetop where empty trays sat in memory.

Shane’s hands explored the hem of the large wooden door that marked the obvious escape, discovering the large key-locked baricade that Shane had feared would hinder his exit. His fingertips blindly followed a familiar path down the rough, textured wallpaper, leading him into the warm, stuffy atmosphere of the living room. Bentley bumped his head against Shane’s leg in the best comfort a dog could manage. 

His hands found the window out into the garden, the place Shane found the most respite in his life. He fidgeted with the loose hatch, tugging every few seconds to see if he’d made it through. The window, after many tries, snapped up a inch, scratching against itself with a painful, clawing drag. Hunching down, Shane bent his knees before springing up to full height, bringing the rest of the window up with him.

There was a rose bush in the way.

The red blossoms mocked the shining blood that still trickled down his calves, having slowed to only a drip as his body worked quickly to cover the reminders of his suffering. Leaning down onto his knees, Shane wrapped his arms one final time around the supportive figure of Bentley’s neck, rubbing his palms deep into the soft fur the seemed to blend seamlessly into his skin. His dog whined, leaning his head into Shane’s shoulder before the boy stood, swinging a leg out into the bush blocking his path.

The twisting brambles of the rose bush stuck into his skin with a prickle, catching his body as he committed to fully pushing out of the building. Both of his legs felt the rose’s claws dig into the shallows of his flesh, pulling against him violently as he heaved out and away from his prison.

He had to go.

He had to go  _ somewhere _ .

...Jon. He’d go to Jon. His only friend out of the country, Jon would help him get into that academy he went to, Shane knew it. 

But, he realized as he swung over the shallow white fence, he’d have to go quickly.

Now.

He had to go now.

And that’s exactly what he did.


End file.
